


Pitfalls

by buttcat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken Bones, M/M, smooches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 15:27:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcat/pseuds/buttcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A stint in a ditch stirs up some uncomfortable memories for John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock! Sherlock, we've got to go back!" John shouted. 

His friend's coattails disappeared into the mist ahead of him, and he attempted to follow, his pumping arms cutting through great swathes of heavy air. He cursed quietly to himself. They weren't going to catch the suspect, not in this fog. Even Sherlock couldn't see through it - _actually, could he?_ John wondered. He wiped at the condensation building on his forehead, his elbow smacking into an invisible tree branch as he raised it. It stung.

They really needed to give this up. He squinted his eyes, hoping to catch a glance of that heavy coat through the trees. "Sher - " 

Suddenly, there was a tug at his foot and the world crashed down around him. Pebbles and leaves avalanched upward as his head slammed into the ground, and he began to slide downward, too stunned to move. At the last moment he made a desperate grab for a root, a rock, anything, but it was far too late, and his hands closed on air as he tipped over the lip of an edge, legs flailing uselessly underneath him. Something slammed him in the midsection, and he gasped for air, retching, hands scrabbling over it in search of purchase - but again, he was too slow, and his body slid over the edge. His leg hit the ground first, and then the world went black. 

 

When he woke, he immediately leant over to his right and vomited up his lunch. They'd stopped at a Chinese place beforehand, mostly because John had insisted on it - it had been nearly eighteen hours since they last ate at that point, for Chrissakes - and now the marvelous liangpi noodles that he'd heartily enjoyed a few hours earlier had evacuated his stomach. The action hurt his ribs and he coughed, choking, unable to breathe through the pain. His head spun.

He sat for a moment. Where was he? What'd happened? They'd been running, and then - the undergrowth tangling around his ankle, his head hitting the ground, the short trip down - he must've fallen into a ravine. He peered upward, trying to see just how far down he was, but it was even foggier in this pit than it had been up in the forest. He couldn't even see past his thighs, he realized. They appeared to be cut off just above his knees, disappearing into the soupy fog. 

For a brief moment he panicked. _Are my legs - am I okay? Am I missing - ?_ He shook those irrational thoughts out of his head. Of _course_ he still had legs. He couldn't see them, but he could feel them throbbing insistently, his right ankle in particular. Sprained, maybe? Or broken? It wouldn't be the first time he'd broken an ankle. He remembered suddenly the way his foot had bent upward when he'd landed on it earlier, and he grit his teeth. It didn't matter. He had to get out. 

He braced his hand against the wall, trying to ignore the jolt of pain that seared through his torso as he pushed upward. Broken ribs, then, maybe just two or three? Okay. Okay. He'd had worse. He could deal with it. 

He hopped up onto his left leg, grimacing as he laid his weight onto it. His knees felt wobbly and unsure, though they were otherwise fully functional as far as he could tell. He probably had some pretty impressive bruising, though, from the feel of it. 

Something trickled down to his eye, and he blinked furiously, rubbing at it with the knuckles of his free hand. It came away smeared with red, and he stared at it, breathing in the stifling fog. _Goddammit,_ he thought. _Goddammit._ He wondered if he was concussed, and then decided he didn't _feel_ concussed, so he was probably okay in that respect. In any case, he couldn't do anything about it at the moment. Right now his biggest priority was to scope out the area, find out if there was something he could use to climb back up. He took a step forward. 

Pain. He was familiar with pain: the hot, spreading sort that comes from a bullet; the clean, slick slide of a knife through a cheek; the blunt shock of a rifle butt against an upturned arm. 

This pain, though. This pain that he felt when he tried to move, when he tried to put his weight on his right ankle. This pain that cleaved its way through his spine. He could feel it, all of it. He felt the way the sudden addition of his weight pushed and ground a shard of bone further out of alignment, how it tore his flesh ragged and raw as it pushed outward. He felt the way his muscles spasmed and tightened and strained to keep him upright, crushing around the bone, tearing apart inside of him. He felt all this and, in a fit of mercy, his brain whited out. He didn't remember hitting the ground. 

The wet dirt against his cheek. The starburst of pain in his thigh - it didn't matter, it didn't matter. He crawled, fist over elbow, the way he'd been shown. It hurt, it hurt, but he was lucky. He was so lucky, he knew, because he could see, here and there, broken bodies at all wrong angles, fragments of humans strewn like rubbish in a soil thirsty for blood. It wasn't hopeless, it wasn't hopeless, he told himself as he worked forward, the red mud frothing underneath him. It wasn't hopeless because there, just an arm's reach away, a chest rose and fell, and he bridged that gap in an instant. A boy with tight curls, his eyes turning back up into his skull so that only a sliver of brown iris cut through the white. Twisted fingers that grabbed his lapels, pulling him close so he could feel the hot breath against his chest, heavy with blood and sweat. _Please,_ he had said, and _I want my mum._ John held his hand and pulled him close, telling him it was okay. The helicopters would be there soon, they'd get lifted out, and it'd be okay. He tried to ignore the space where the boy's legs had been, the tattered meat of his midsection, the spill of his entrails. _Hush - you'll see your mum, I promise. I promise._

He stayed like that until the boy stopped, whispering soft encouragements the whole time, and then much longer after, through the last rounds of gunfire. When the helicopters did come, they'd had to pull him off the boy, coax him to let go. _Come on - come on. It's too late for him. We've got to hurry._

There was no hope. There was no hope. 

 

He woke violently, eyes fluttering wide open, mouth sucking at the air. 

He saw the sky above him, past the thick branches of the trees. He followed the constellations in the clean night sky, bringing himself back to the present through the familiarity of the movement. He was in the countryside, chasing after Sherlock Holmes, who was chasing after some idiotic criminal. Afghanistan was far, far away. He knew this, and yet his heart pounded as if he'd been running a race, and he was clenching handfuls of muck in his fists. Slowly, gently, he relaxed his hands, then his tense back, then his neck. He let his knees settle back into the damp ground and continued to follow the stars with his eyes. Calm. Calm. 

The anxiety left his body, and in its place, a strange clarity settled in. The fog had cleared, he realized. That was why he'd been able to see the stars. The earth was cool and comforting against his cheek, and he didn't much want to move. He was going to die here, he thought. He'd made it through car bombings and grenades and no small number of gunfights and kidnappings and absurd experiments and unexpected severed bits in his jam, and he was going to die here, in a ditch, in the woods.

He made to close his eyes. This was it, then, he supposed. Here and gone in a flash. And for what? What had he accomplished? Whom had he saved? Who would remember him, in the end? 

A single face was summoned forth from his delirious, exhausted mind. Ghostly pale, soft lips, stupidly high cheekbones. A scarf. A laptop, his, borrowed to search for inane factoids no-one else would care about, no one but _him_. Eyes that glinted with excitement, the high of putting together an impossible case, of outfoxing another potential mastermind. Eyes that could cut through diamond when displeased, but were always soft when turned upon him. Caring. Saying, without words - your work matters. 

_No._

No. He was not done. He couldn't give up here, not now. There was still - something. Someone. He was not done, and he would be _damned_ if he gave up here, gave up now, with all this slurry filling the legs of his trousers, this mess of blood and sweat and dirt masking his hands. He would not be another corpse. He would not be another cold face in the morgue. He owed his mother more than that, his sister, all the men who died around him. 

He heaved his torso up, plunging forward into the cool night. There were leaves stuck to his cheek. He brushed them off. 

His hands pushed up against the wall again. _I'm being ridiculous,_ he thought. _Thinking I'm going to die here, of all places._ His shoulders strained. He got to his knees. _It isn't hopeless. It isn't hopeless. It isn't ever hopeless._

He used an outcropping in the wall to heave himself unsteadily to his feet. He kept his right leg lifted behind him and he wobbled, uncertain as a foal, trying to find his center of balance.

He careened to the right, and right before he caught himself, something caught his eye. Up there, on a bit of a shelf, was that - ? 

His phone. _His phone._ In the fog he hadn't been able to see it, but now that the sky had cleared, he could spot it caught on the edge of a rock just a few meters above him.

His heart jumped. _Oh, my God. Oh, God._ He just needed a, a stick or something, just long enough to swipe it clear. The floor of the ravine was heavy with pebbles and dank water and dying leaves, but nothing long, nothing - 

There! Protruding from the wall, a vine, or root, or something. He didn't care. He just needed to get it free, and then - then, he was set. 

He hopped over, landing heavily each time. His torso jolted uncomfortably as he went, his ribs twinging in his empty insides, and he prayed silently - _please, don't let them pierce anything. Please._ He grabbed it with both hands, braced his good leg against the wall, and pulled back hard.

He was flung suddenly backwards, dirt showering down into his eyes, his mouth. He tucked his elbows underneath him the best he could and pressed his chin into his chest, trying to save his back from the brunt of the blow. He lay there for a moment, moist earth continuing to cascade on to his tired body. 

There In his hands, he realized, clenched between his two fists, was the root. It was softer, brittler than he'd thought it'd be, but it didn't matter. He had it. He was saved. 

He pushed himself up, again. _Keep going. Keep moving._ He stumbled, teetered, and used the wall to prop himself up, upper arm sinking into the dank earth. His jumper was ruined, so ruined, but he didn't care anymore. He just wanted to get out, move forward, get away. He wanted to get back home, where there'd be tea and maybe even biscuits if he was lucky, and Sherlock. There would be Sherlock. 

He lunged, the momentum of the movement flinging him back down onto the ground. The tip of the root hit the phone, and it wobbled, slid, and then fell, plopping with an absurd finality next to his head. He flung the root to the side and scrabbled the phone in between his hands. The light went on. It wasn't dead.

SHERLK, he typed clumsily. His hands were slippery and wet and cold. HELP. IN WDS. BROKE ANKLE. He hesitated a moment, and added, PLES HURRY. He pressed send. 

He let the phone slip out of his numb fingers and into the dirt beside him. He dropped his head down into the crook of his arm and let his eyes flutter shut, knowing he had done what he could. Above him he could hear the call-and-return song of forest creatures, the buzz of insects. All he could do now was wait.


	2. Chapter 2

He was lying on his back in a cot, stained yellow sheets tucked so snugly into him that he couldn't move. His throat burned with thirst. 

Somewhere, someone was howling in agony. He couldn't turn his head, but in his peripherals he could see other cots like his stretching out forever, a lumpy dark body thrashing in each. Whoever - _whatever_ \- was in the cot to his left was sobbing quietly and steadily into its pillow. It smelled like smoke and sick. Flies buzzed around his head, alighting on the bedding near his face. 

He could hear crisp footsteps somewhere near, polite little heels against stone, but he could see no one. _"Nurse,"_ he tried to say, but he found he could not speak, could not move his lips. Like a thought, a whisper, a familiar voice caressed his ear, so soft he could hardly hear it. _John,_ it said. 

The fluorescent light above him was flickering ceaselessly, and the pounding in his head synchronized with it. He wanted to rest the palms of his hands against his eyes, let the cool skin soothe the ache, but try as he might his elbows were pinned to his side. His mouth was dry, so dry, and he couldn't do anything about it. 

_John,_ the voice called again, and he wanted so desperately to answer. It tugged at him like a current. _Who?_ he wondered. _Who?_

A fly settled on his nose, and waves of revulsion rolled through him. The black objects in the cots, he realized, they were huge writhing burnt worms. His stomach roiled but he couldn't throw up, not on his back, not with his throat so sore and dry. _Nurse. Anyone. Please. Get me out of here._

_John!_ the voice called, more insistent now. _John! Are you all right? Where are you?_

_I'm here,_ John tried to say. The flies were settling on him in droves, now, clustering over his mouth and nose and eyes, gagging him. Their tiny legs and wings buzzed at his face, trying to find purchase, and he realized to his horror that they were trying to breach his lips, his teeth, trying to climb down his throat and settle in his insides. _Oh God, oh Jesus, oh my God. Please, someone -_

_John! Can you hear me? Where are you?_

The voice. The voice! 

He had to be heard. The flies were pressing in on him from all angles, shoving their hairy bodies at his mouth, but he had to speak. He opened his lips. 

"Sherlock - " he croaked. "I'm down here - "

The flies burst off him in a great cloud, dissipating into the edges of his vision like a horrible picture frame. In their place he could see leaves, and roots, and night sky, and then, a second before a stupendously bright torch was flicked into his eyes, a pair of worried, familiar eyes above dirt-smudged cheekbones. 

He flung up an arm to protect his fragile eyes from the beam.

"John!" said the voice, that familiar, wonderful voice, and he realized through the pain and overwhelming brightness a great grin had spread across his face.

"Sherlock," he coughed. "Sherlock, turn off that bloody torch." 

The beam was turned away from him, and John blinked furiously. His vision swam with spots. 

"Are you all right?" Sherlock called down. "Hang in there - I'll be right back, okay?"

Sherlock began to back away, and John found himself filled with an irrational panic. "No - " he cried. "Don't go - please - "

"I've got to get Lestrade, all right? I can't pull you out by myself."

"Please. Please, Sherlock, stay," he said, and realized he could feel the familiar sting of tears at the corner of his eyes. He rubbed at them and grit his teeth. _Mustn't cry._

Sherlock's voice wavered out of the darkness, surprisingly soft. "Okay," he said.

"Thank you," John whispered. Sherlock made no sign of hearing him, instead gracefully lowering himself to the edge of the ditch and dangling his long legs over the side. He pulled out his phone, tapped something out into it, set it onto his lap. John's vision was slowly returning, bit by bit, and he could see his friend's familiar intimidating silhouette cut out against the night sky. He still couldn't make out his face, but he could imagine the expression - annoyance, probably, at having to chase after his flatmate in the woods. 

"We caught him," Sherlock said suddenly. 

"What?"

"The criminal. He was fast, but - " 

The phone went off in Sherlock's lap, and he peered at it, his hair falling over his face. "Lestrade's on his way."

John nodded. "Sherlock - I'm sorry - "

Sherlock looked up. "Hm? Why?"

"Because I - you had to come looking for me, and I'd... I'd put you to all this - "

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be a prat. I'd have - Lestrade!" he said, springing to his feet. 

The Detective Inspector said something that John couldn't quite make out.

"Bloody well yes you can lift us both. John's in no state to climb out on his own." 

There was a muffled argument, and finally one end of the rope was secured about a nearby tree and the other was tossed down by John's feet. Sherlock slid down carefully. 

"Can you walk? Here, get on my back, all right?" 

They maneuvered about awkwardly until John was hanging on to Sherlock's shoulders, his face pressed into the taller man's neck. Sherlock wrapped the rope about his waist and then his arm, and gave it a tug. 

"All right, Lestrade. Shall we?"

It took a bit of cursing and tugging, but they slowly made their way to the top, jostling against the wall of the ditch the entire way. John knew he was clinging to Sherlock perhaps more so than he really had to, but he didn't care. He hooked his knee about his waist and pressed his cheek into his neck, breathing in his clean smell. 

They tumbled out over the lip of the drop, untangling themselves from the rope. Lestrade wandered over, breathing heavily. 

"'Lo, John," he said. "You all right?" 

Sherlock sat up, and John let his head rest in his lap. "Been better," he said. "Let's get out of here, please." 

Sherlock's eyes roved over him in concern. "You won't be able to walk," he stated. 

"Nah, I can manage," he said nonchalantly, trying to ignore the sharp pain that pierced through him every time he drew a breath. "I've had worse."

Sherlock scoffed and nudged him off his thigh. "Sit up," he said, and crouched in front of him. "Grab hold of my neck."

"I'm fine," John protested. 

"You're covered in blood. Get on."

John did so. He could feel the muscles of Sherlock's back move and tense as he stood, shifting to allow for his weight. His long arms looped behind him and caught John underneath his knees so as to support him better, and they began their trek back through the woods.

Sherlock was trying to walk as smoothly as he could, John knew, but he was still jostling about uncomfortably, his right foot flopping into the air uselessly. He tried to brace his chest against Sherlock's back in a way that would keep his sternum steady, but there really wasn't much he could do in the end. 

They walked, and walked, and walked. Had they really gone that far, John wondered? In the heat of the moment, adrenaline coursing through his body, the chase itself hadn't felt that long, but now that they were on their way back, it seemed as if they were miles away from the road. Had Sherlock been forced to take this long walk back on his own? Had it seemed this lengthy to him, too? He crushed his face against the man's shoulder, feeling intensely guilty. If he'd just been more careful, more watchful, maybe they would have been in the flat right now, resting on the sofa and sipping hot tea. In a few minutes he'd probably have gotten up, stretched - _I've got work tomorrow, Sherlock. You ought to sleep too -_ and trekked up the stairs to his bedroom, alone, falling asleep as soon as he shut his eyes.

Sherlock came to a sudden stop, and John's head jolted up. They'd reached the road, though the underbrush was still thick underneath them. 

"Are you all right? Did I hurt you?" Sherlock twisted his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of John. His worry was oddly sweet, and it set off a warm glow in John's stomach. 

"I'm fine, really. You just startled me."

"I'm going to let you down, all right? So you can get in the car. Let me know if it hurts."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I'll leave you two to it," he said, and climbed into the front seat. _The cop car,_ John realized, and the glow that'd grown out of Sherlock's worry was consumed by a heavy guilt. They'd arrived in that car. Had Sherlock been here that whole time, searching for him? 

"You should've gone home," he said groggily. 

"What? Yes, we're going home. I've got the door for you, see? Just get your legs in - good. Off we go." He slid in afterwards, propping John up against him. "We'll be there soon."

"Actually," said Lestrade. His face looked tired and drawn in the rearview mirror. "Don't you think we ought to go to hospital?" 

"I'm trying to _comfort_ him, Lestrade. You're not very good at this."

"We're going to hospital."

The car started to move. John leant heavily into Sherlock's arm, his eyes fluttering. 

"You look _terrible,"_ Sherlock said, smoothing his hair. John smiled.

"Sorry," he mumbled, turning his face into the crook of his friend's arm. "I really am sorry." 

"Hush," Sherlock grumbled. "Not your fault."

His eyes slipped shut. "Thank you," he whispered again, and fell sound asleep.

He continued to pet John's head for the entirety of the ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more dumb stuff okaY


	3. Chapter 3

When John opened his eyes, everything was white. He blinked, trying to adjust his vision, but everything stayed as it was, clean and sterile and snowy. He realized his left shoulder was bound down tightly, and his exhausted brain jumped to the - dream? vision? hallucination? - he'd had earlier, the memory of helplessness coursing through him and setting his nerves alight. He tried to kick his sheets off, found his leg was suspended and immobile, and began to panic, his eyes wide, gasping for breath as if he was drowning. He jerked his forearm upward and felt a soft hand squeeze about his wrist, soothing and heavy. Someone grunted sleepily next to him. 

_A familiar voice._ He halted his struggle, turned his head to the left. Slumped in a chair, his legs sprawled endearingly, his face soft in sleep, sat Sherlock Holmes. The morning sun peered through a window behind him, giving his porcelain skin an unearthly, gentle glow. 

_Sherlock? What were they - ? Ah,_ he remembered. _The chase through the woods. And the ravine._

The memory of last night brought a dull soreness into being through his leg, his chest, through the hollows of his temples. He remembered his heavy landing, the way he'd smashed his midsection against rocks and crags on the way down. And his phone was still back in the woods, wasn't it, he realized. He'd have to get a new one. Harry wouldn't be happy that he'd lost it. Last night had been remarkably terrible, hadn't it. 

But right now - . He wiggled his fingers experimentally. The hand was still there, its fingertips gently grazing his fragile skin. 

"Have you been here all night?" he asked quietly. "You ought to've gone home." 

Sherlock snuffled softly in reply. Asleep he looked oddly innocent, the creases between his eyebrows smoothed in rest, the harsh glare of his eyes hidden behind soft, dark lashes. John couldn't help but smile. He shifted his friend's hand downward, laced those long, pale fingers through his own.

"I really am sorry," he mumbled into his pillow. "You shouldn't have to look after me." 

 

When he woke up for the second time, the sun was considerably lower in the sky. For a moment he felt a rush of loss before he realized Sherlock was still sitting beside him, bony knees pulled to his chest, one hand propping open a heavy textbook and the other still entwined through John's. John lay and watched him read for a while, fascinated by the speed and precision with which his bright eyes snapped back and forth across the pages, the way he brought his thumb to his lips, wet it, and used it to flick through the page once he was done. He had a pencil tucked between his index and middle fingers, which he twirled lazily as he read. 

"What time is it?" he croaked. He was wearing the same gray button-down he'd had on when they'd gone out to dinner last night, John realized, and he had leaves stuck to his trouser legs and to the soles of his shoes. He'd been here - how long? 

"Five," Sherlock said, without looking up. 

"And we've been here - " 

"Since two," Sherlock said, his eyes continuing to skate across the page. "In the morning." John winced. 

"You should've - I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said. "You should've gone home, really."

"Three broken ribs," Sherlock said. He snapped the book shut, plopped his feet down on the floor, and let it rest on his knee. "An open fracture through your lower right fibula. Sternal fracture along your left side. No concussion, miraculously, though you've got some nasty scrapes."

"I - "

"Stop it." Sherlock squeezed his hand. "I wasn't about to leave you."

"But - the suspect - "

"Unimportant. Besides, I told you. We caught him. Were you even listening?"

"Probably not, no." John laughed and then, to Sherlock's alarm, began to cough. His head shuddered forward and his right hand, clenched in a fist, drew up to his throat. Sherlock swooped over him, concern in his eyes. The book tumbled to the floor.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked, gathering John's fist in both his hands. John nodded.

"Fine," he sputtered. Sherlock looked alarmed.

"Should I call the nurse?"

"Nah. Nah, look," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm fine, see? Just don't make me laugh."

Sherlock continued to loom over him, his brows furrowed, his mouth tight.

"You're really worried about me, aren't you," he said, before he could stop himself.

"Of course I am," Sherlock exclaimed. "You're my flatmate - my best friend, John. I don't - I don't know what I'd do without you." A blush spread over his high cheeks. His hands were shaking, just slightly, around John's.

"I - well," John said. "Huh."

"I'm not a machine, John, despite what people may say. I'm - I _care_ about you a great deal, all right?" He turned his face away, refusing to meet John's eye, but their hands remained locked together. 

"I - care for you as well," said John. "A lot. So - . So you ought to go home and take care of yourself, okay? Please?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

"You've got leaves in your hair," John said. "Go home and clean yourself up, and get something to eat. _Don't_ argue!"

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled. He made as if to stand up, but then, in a smooth, sudden movement, he bent and caught John's lips with his own.

It was a quick, gentle kiss, but John felt as if it'd pulled all the air out of him. He sat gaping.

"I'll - see you," Sherlock muttered to the ground, and then swept out, his cheeks burning red-hot.

The door swung shut behind him, and John stared at the space where his flatmate had been. "See you," he said weakly.

His lips felt as if they were aflame.


	4. Chapter 4

The room was sterile and silent without Sherlock, and he quickly found himself becoming bored. There was a tiny television mounted on the wall across from his bed, and he passed an hour or two watching the news. None of it caught his fancy, and he restlessly slipped in and out of sleep.

At about seven Molly came in to check on him, to his surprise and delight. She brought along with her a batch of home-made chocolate biscuits in a shopping bag. They were a bit too airy and thin for John's taste, but he thanked her all the same and made a show of eating two of them in front of her. He got crumbs all down his front but it was worth it to see the delighted, fond smile that she gave him. 

"I'll finish the rest later," he told her. "I'm really not feeling too well right now."

"I can imagine!" she exclaimed. "You took quite a tumble!"

"Hm," he agreed. "I'm lucky Sherlock found me when he did."

"Where is he, anyway? Lestrade said he'd stayed behind with you, you know, since you were checked in. That's really quite sweet!" 

"Well," John said, feeling anxiety prickle at the edges of his stomach. "He left, actually."

"Ha! Isn't that just like him? Catches wind of a case and he's off."

"It wasn't a case, no," John said. The room felt suddenly too hot, too close, and he wished Molly wouldn't crowd him so. Her stockinged knees were nearly up against the side of the bed, and she was leaning forward toward him with an eager glint in her eye, her hands balled on her lap. "It was - well." He coughed.

"What? What did he do? John, you're blushing."

"Er, what? It's hot in here, is all."

"John, don't dodge the question." She looked him up and down, concern apparent on her face. "What happened? It's obviously been really bothering you. Did you two have a row?" 

"No, no, it's just - " _it's worse than that,_ John thought, and grit his teeth. _Well, no -_ it wasn't that it was _bad,_ really, just... complicated. He felt the entire story boiling up in his throat, threatening to spill out over his tongue, and he tried to stopper it down. Did he want to tell Molly, this woman he hardly knew - this woman who, quite clearly, had nursed a bit of a crush of her own on Sherlock for the last few years, despite the detective's best attempts to turn her away?

But wouldn't that make her the perfect person to consult, really? Of all people, she'd understand John's - well, lack of _aversion_ to Sherlock. He'd never been the type to seek council, but this incident in particular - well, he hadn't any idea even where to begin. What do you do when your flatmate, your partner-in-crime - 

"Kissed me," John muttered to his bedsheets.

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked. 

"He kissed me," he said, straightening up, swinging his head around to catch her full-on. She looked less surprised than he thought she would, and he was unsure if she'd heard him or not. "He kissed - "

"Ah," she said. She continued to look completely unruffled, which spurred John to continue. 

"He kissed me, Molly. I thought he was - I dunno, uninterested in romance? In other people, at all? Sometimes it seems he hardly tolerates me, let alone - ." He paused and pressed his eyes shut, mouth working. "It was unexpected. That's all."

"Really?" she said. "I suppose the kiss is bit surprising, but I mean - it's obvious he cares for you, you know. You do know, right?" 

"Well - "

"Oh, John - you know how he is better than anyone! You've seen how he treats his clients, his brother - how he treats _me_. He lets you live with him - he _laughs_ at your _jokes,_ John!" She let out a tired, exasperated laugh, and for a moment John saw something hard and dangerous in her face before it melted into the friendly, caring nonchalant expression she usually put on. 

She was right, though, he realized. Sherlock was - he was _difficult,_ and testy, and he refused to lose. But he made allowances for John. He'd agreed to stop storing bits of corpses directly in the appliances they used for cooking, and after he'd burnt a hole through the table in one particularly disastrous escapade, he tried to keep the most noxious, horrible experiments in his own bedroom. And he let John watch whatever crap telly he wanted, and he'd only spoil the endings of the mystery dramas about half the time, which was really very restrained of him. And he didn't leave his dirty laundry about the flat, and he mostly didn't touch John's armchair, and when they were out on town he'd call John a taxi if he was too drunk or tired to do it for himself. All of this for John, all of it for the sake of a man that, for all the world, seemed to be no different from all the others he'd ever ignored and belittled. And yet - 

And yet, evidently, he wasn't just like those people. For whatever reason, Sherlock - no, he didn't _put up with him._ Sherlock didn't put up with people. He didn't tolerate them, either, because it he thought it a waste of time. No, Sherlock liked him. 

"You've no idea, do you," she said sadly. 

"No, I - . I think I do," he said, and, right then, he really did. "He's - we're - . Well." 

"You ought to talk to him," she said, her honest eyes steady and serious on his. "Really. I know, John - I've been through this sort of thing, and you really ought to tell him whatever it is you're feeling."

"I don't _know,_ though, is the problem," said John. "He's my best mate. He's my _flatmate,_ for Chrissake. I can't just - "

"But did you like kissing him?" Molly interrupted.

"Yes," he said, before he could think about it, and he shuttered his eyes closed yet again. "Oh, God," he moaned. He opened them again, and saw that Molly was standing over him, a benevolent smile upon her face.

"He'll come in later, I'm sure of it," she said. "You've got to talk to him then, okay? I've got to get going, but enjoy the biscuits in the meantime."

"I - okay," he muttered. "And hey, Molly?" 

She turned back to him, framed by the doorway. "Mmhm?"

"Thanks. For - you know."

"Anytime," she said, smiling, and she swept out. 

For the life of him, he couldn't tell if she was being sincere or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooRAY 
> 
> more john/sherlock interaction is coming next chapter, but here's a thing in the interim I guess


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock came in again much, much later. The sun had long set, but John had spent the entire day napping on and off and was having more than a little trouble falling asleep at a regular hour. When Sherlock skulked through the door, uncharacteristically silent, John had picked up the textbook his friend had left behind him after his earlier hasty retreat from the sickroom. It was cryptic, dry, and utterly uninteresting, and John only continued paging through it as an excuse to avoid looking the detective in the eye as he settled in the chair next to him. 

Sherlock could not keep silent for long. "Enjoying that?" he asked dryly. John couldn't help but make a face.

"No, actually," he said, snapping it shut. 

"It's quite fascinating with a little background," Sherlock said. "It's about the concept of the Tabula Rasa, a theory popularized by a man named John Locke. It really makes no sense when considered from a modern genetic standpoint, but - " 

"Yes, yes, that's all very nice," John said quickly, before Sherlock could get going. "Genetic - yes. Fascinating."

" _I_ think so," said Sherlock. 

John handed the book back. "Not my cuppa," he said. Sherlock gave him a tiny, understanding smile, and John's heart jumped. 

Molly was right. He _had_ to bring it up. He couldn't just let this sit. Their entire friendship was hanging in the balance here, and it was up to him to do what he could to right it. 

He'd thought about this moment almost continually since Molly'd left, but now that Sherlock was there, solid and physical before him, he had no idea how to broach the subject.

He'd just have to try. 

"Sherlock. You, er," John said, gesturing toward his face. "Earlier."

Sherlock turned his face away as if to hide his expression, but John caught the soft blush that crept across his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Ah! No, don't be - erm, don't be sorry! I don't mind."

"It's beside the point if you didn't _mind_ ," said Sherlock. "It hardly matters if I didn't completely repel you. You didn't _like_ it, or _want_ it, and that's still... not good."

"Well, I mean," John said. "That's true. Wait - what I mean, is - " he added, seeing how his friend seemed to deflate before him - "I mean that's an important thing to, er, to consider. I'm glad you did." 

"I still did it, though," Sherlock said, his eyes fixed firmly at his lap. He was toying at the pages of the book with one hand, bending the corners back and rolling them forward again in between his index finger and thumb. "The thought didn't occur to me until afterwards. It was impulsive, and I'm sorry." 

"Sherlock - "

"I won't do it again. I promise."

"I wouldn't mind if you did," he heard himself say. He hadn't meant to speak this sentiment aloud, but now it was too late. His toes curled in embarrassment underneath the thin hospital sheets as Sherlock looked at him exasperatedly, his eyebrows arched high and skeptical. 

"Like I said, 'not minding' is hardly consent - " 

Ah. He still didn't understand, did he? Oh, Sherlock. The man was brilliant when it came to logic, to cold, hard facts, to deducing the truth out of almost nothing, but emotionally he was utterly lost. A child. 

He'd have to be led through this one. 

"Actually, I might quite like it," John said. 

"You - what?"

John rolled his eyes in exasperation, reached over with his good arm, grasped Sherlock's collar between his fingers, and dragged him into a harsh, demanding kiss. The textbook slid off his lap and hit the floor with a thud. 

John didn't dare breach the detective's lips with his tongue, afraid he'd scare him away, but when they broke apart the lust was apparent in his eyes. 

"Ah," said Sherlock.

"Ah," John agreed.

"I see," Sherlock said. He was panting a little.

"Good," John said. 

For a moment they stayed there, the detective's tall, lanky frame bent over the small hospital bed. It was Sherlock who moved first, pressing his lips fiercely back into John's. This time, much to John's surprise, he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into his mouth and brushing it against his teeth. John welcomed the intrusion gladly, tilting his head back to allow Sherlock better access. 

It wasn't good enough, not for either of them. Sherlock braced his hands next to John's shoulders and straddled his midsection, his bony knees pressing into the thin mattress below. John arched up to meet him but Sherlock, mindful of his injuries, pushed downward gently on his chest. "Don't," he whispered, and resumed the kiss. 

It was hot, and slick, and so, so, good. What Sherlock lacked in experience, he made up for in enthusiasm, and it was both endearing and very, very arousing. He could feel his cock begin to harden beneath the sheets and he was torn between his longing to feel and touch versus his desire to protect his modesty.

Even if he wasn't willing to shag Sherlock in his hospital bed, he still wanted to get as much contact out of the man as he possibly could. His good hand pressed down at the small of Sherlock's back, and this time he complied, his chest lowering to rest gently against John's. He was so gentle, so soft, and even as their tongues twined together madly and their hearts raced faster and faster he couldn't help but reflect upon how considerate he was being, how mindful of his predicament he was. It was so obvious how much he cared for John, and how he wanted to make certain he was okay, and John could nearly kick himself for ever daring to think otherwise.

Now, obviously, was not the time. Sherlock was sliding his hand down John's side, under the blanket, down to his hip, and then, below the hem of his flimsy, horrible hospital gown, and God, it felt nice, Sherlock's long fingers ghosting across his bare thigh, their lips moving together slow and steady - 

John's mind was suddenly filled with images of nurses wandering in to check on him, only to find them both naked and entwined in the tiny bed. He pulled away from the kiss, and Sherlock stared down at him with glazed eyes, his lips pink and plump and utterly kissed. 

"We can't," he panted. "It's - we're in a hospital - ah! Sherlock!" 

Sherlock had latched onto his neck, and the sweet kisses he was planting beneath his jaw were sending a warm heat down his sternum and into his gut. "Can't," Sherlock mumbled into his skin. "Please. Want you." 

John gave in. It wasn't a particularly hard decision. 

He twined the fingers of his left hand through Sherlock's soft, curly hair, and stroked the back of his neck. Sherlock hummed happily against his skin. "Sherlock," he said, and then, "Oh! _Sherlock!"_ as the tall man bit down on his neck. He pushed up on the back of his head and hauled him into a kiss. 

The detective's long fingers moved across his thigh and captured his heavy shaft in his hand, and John hissed into his mouth, his hips jutting up against Sherlock's abdomen. He could feel his friend's arousal too, hot and pulsing against his crisp, clean trousers, and he wanted so badly to reach down and take it into his hand, his mouth, let Sherlock see exactly how he was making him feel. He couldn't quite reach, though, and instead he settled with tucking his hand underneath the waistband of the trousers and stroking at the cleft of his soft arse. Sherlock pressed back into him, his hand squeezing and palming, and the kiss became sloppy and desperate and John wanted him, he wanted him so badly. Thoughts of interrupting nurses were far from his mind, and all he could think of was Sherlock, Sherlock, this beautiful man and his firm bottom, his steady, tight palm about his cock. He thrust into that hand greedily, desperate for contact, for release, for _Sherlock,_ and Sherlock pressed his erection into his thigh and pushed against him in the same hungry way. 

"Wait," Sherlock said, bringing his hand away, and John whimpered unhappily. But then Sherlock slithered down his torso, careful of his harm, and took his cock deep into his mouth.

"Sherlock. _Fuck,"_ he said, his hips leaping from the bed. Sherlock pushed down on his hip, stilling him. 

"Let me," he said, and swallowed him down again, his wet, warm lips closing about the base of his shaft. John had to pinch his eyes shut and take shallow, halting breaths to keep himself from rutting into his friend's throat. 

For a moment Sherlock paused, working his lips and tongue, adjusting himself to John's swollen cock, and then those perfect lips began to move. 

_"Sherlock,"_ John stuttered. He fisted his sheets, fingers working restlessly. "Sherlock, please. Yes, Sherlock - " 

That slick tongue played with the bottom of the shaft, his head, encircling him with a perfect ring of slick heat. He was speaking gibberish now, he knew, platitudes to Sherlock and some deaf, uncaring God, small noises of pure adulating joy that poured out of his throat like honey. Sherlock was making insistant little moans of his own, humming against John's cock, and God, did it feel good. He was moving faster, now, and John could feel that familiar, warm sensation in his abdomen, that insistent pull that meant he was close. 

"Sherlock, oh my God. Sherlock, I'm going to - " 

Those lips tightened around him, refusing to back away despite the warning, and he spasmed and shook deep into the other man's throat, groaning as he did so. It was wonderful, and hot, and intense, and through it all he saw Sherlock pulling away, coughing. 

He was thoroughly embarrassed, but even so a warm glow spread through his chest, his legs. He'd entirely forgotten his bruises, his soreness, and even now he could hardly feel them beneath the joy he felt at being with Sherlock.

"Sorry," he began, but the detective lunged upward and kissed him hard on the mouth before he could get any further. He realized with a start that he could feel the other man's erection pressing insistently against his thigh, and so he pushed him away, began to work his hand down his long stomach. "C'mere. Let me." 

"Careful," Sherlock warned, but John couldn't have cared less. He unzipped those posh trousers, wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock - and maybe it was a little uncomfortable, maybe he'd be a little sore later, but right now he _didn't care_ \- and one, two, three pulls was all it took to get Sherlock to spill out over his hand, sticky and warm. He wiped it off onto the bedsheets. 

Sherlock rolled off of him, a tiny, sweet smile gracing his face. He curled up next to him, splaying one long arm across his stomach. 

"John. My John," he said into his ear, and John smiled. _I'm all yours._

They fell asleep like that, with Sherlock's arms tenderly about him. John never slept more soundly in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~ffFUN FACT!!: tabula rasa (or "blank slate") is the idea that people are born w/o any idea of how to act, and they just learn all that shit from their parents/society/people they hang out with!!!!!! but that is silly and not true at all!!! sherlock mentions linguistics specifically becaUSE modern research of languages and language learning has provided us with some p solid evidence that all children are wired to learn languages similarly!!!! obvs youre not born knowing a language BUT but but we are all created with the natural innate ability to absorb grammatical structure and thats one solid strike against the tabula rasa theory!!!~~ DISREGARD ALL OF THAT IT IS DUMB. here is a throwdown from Alise, who actually knows what they are talking about: 
> 
> "While I appreciate your attempt to inject learning into this series, I must comment on the factual basis of the information. Morphology apropos of, linguistics when alluding to tabula rasa, is not a prevalent matter. While we all my be predisposed to learn language if no one teaches it to us we are incapable of learning it, hence the conjuncture with tabula rasa. Unless taught the subject matter we lack the ability to learn it. In conjuncture John Locke when using the statement Tabula Rasa was referring more to the aspect of personality and who we become as an individual. Not our proclivities towards certain subjects. If you seek to disprove the idea of Tabula Rasa, I will inform you that you would have a greater ability to do so when using the foundation of genetics. While I appreciate your attempt to enlighten others on the subject matter, I would highly suggest that any further attempts made on your part to enlighten the moronic population of this world actually be correct."

**Author's Note:**

> why do i do these things


End file.
